Let Go
by Ellenka
Summary: ... or don't. Because a chance at comfort is not lost until you let it.


A/N: Umm hi. I'm alive & braindead, but I decided to write a little something just to make myself feel better. Set in CF-movie verse - in the infamous flashback scene that annoys the hell outta me.

I don't own anything THG related (it would look hella different if I did).

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**Flash Back**

"Let go! Let go!"

It takes me a moment to realize that the voice screaming is my own. Shrill with horror nestled deep in my subconscious and emerging, unbidden, at the worst of times. My bow empty bow clatters to the frozen ground as my arms flail about, fighting off the hands reaching for me. They don't desist, but don't hurt me either, their touch firm but gentle. Accompanied by words, gruff but soothing.

"It's okay. You are here with me."

I know the voice, know the hands, I should recognize them anywhere. The reassuring familiarity slowly seeps through the haze of shock, my breaths deepen, eyes focus on what's real.

"Okay... With me."

With my friend. Home. In our woods. It's okay. It should be okay.

My hands are still shaking, my heart trembling in its cage, my soul shivering with chill that has nothing to do with the winter.

It's not okay and I have no strength to pretend otherwise. That would be stupid anyway, after I lost it while shooting at a stupid turkey.

I saw different blood pouring from the wound, a different body hit the ground.

But Gale didn't, and he's staring at me, eyes wide and worried under furrowed brows, lips parted in a silent question. Few snowflakes nestled in the mess of his black hair, cheeks flushed by the biting cold.

I know him.

I'm here with him. But I'm not quite the Katniss he used to know, damn it, not quite the Katniss _I_ used to know, and neither of us quite knows how to salvage what's been broken.

Gale's hands are still gripping my arms, holding me steady. "Tell me what's wrong?"

I open my mouth to speak but no words come out, a noose of everything I want to forget chokes them in my throat.

I should say something, anything, to deflect the question, to play it cool. Avoiding the topic forever would be preferable, but I don't even know how to say that, and we both already know it's not quite working out. A gap is open between us like a wound, so far bandaged by attempts at old banter but untreated in the depths where it's truly dangerous. If it were to heal, something has to grow back, new and slightly different, but rooted in the old. A scar.

"Okay, I know _what_'s wrong," Gale continues, voice laced with frustration, "I've seen it alright. But that's not all. I don't know what it's done to you. Keeps doing. Dammit, Catnip, I don't know what you think anymore."

Shaking my head, I choke out, "Sometimes, I don't know either. I don't even want to know."

"I don't know how to have your back through this," he says, softer now, but somehow more insistent, his eyes burning into mine, searching for answers I can't put into words. "Tell me? If you even want me to?"

"Yeah, but I..." I close my eyes to avoid his gaze. I can't bear how he holds me at arm's length, demanding answers, and struggle until he loosens his hold.

Even though I think I'd planned it, I don't escape when he does, but dive between his arms instead, closer, hiding my face against his chest, my fingers curling into his coat just in case he wanted to pry me away. He doesn't try, though. Even through a sharp, surprised intake of breath, his body reacts to accommodate mine, arms wrapping around me, cradling my shoulders and head.

"Just let me know how to help you. Tell me. Show me. Whatever you want," he whispers into my hair.

"I just... I just want to forget," I mutter into his shirt. "Everything, I guess. But it's way too much. Too much happened."

Too much has happened since he'd held me like this for the last time, but I recall it more vividly as he seeps into my senses: the scent of his skin, the rhythm of his breath, the beat of his heart. Too has much happened since I promised Prim I'll win for her, since Gale tried to tell me that the cost would be less than it turned out to be and I almost believed him. "Now I know what the difference is," I choke out.

"Yeah," he breathes. He knows what I'm talking about, he remembers too.

I shake my head against him, frantically. "No, no, you can't say that."

Gale wasn't there, he doesn't quite understand, doesn't quite _know_, but would I even wish the knowledge upon him?

No. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"I'm sorry, Catnip." He strokes my hair, slowly, soothingly, and I feel tears begin to fall in tune with the motion. Softly like rain at first, a trickle through a cracked dam that's been holding too long. I couldn't cry in front of the audiences I had to play a good little Victor for, not in front of mom and Prim I wanted to be strong and happy for... not in front of Peeta, because how could I burden him with my feelings after basically rejecting his?

I didn't want to break down in front of Gale either, after all I've done that only once before, over an experience we'd shared. But the storm I've been carrying in me is too much to hold all by myself now, and I let it out, tears mixing with words I couldn't and shouldn't say anywhere near other ears.

It's okay here. I'm home with my best friend.

And I don't want to let that go.


End file.
